


Blow

by joannabelle



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Also leather pants, And some anal, Filthy, I'm Sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/pseuds/joannabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron designs new armour for the Orcs – and for himself, a new pair of pants.  </p><p>Crack, PWP - I mean this is Angbang, what more do you expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blow

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own it, and that’s probably for the best.  
> Pairings: ANGBANG ugh.  
> Warnings: Blatant PWP – how did I even squeeze a storyline in.  
> Notes: Just fire me already.

Sauron was frustrated.  
  
It had all begun with a rogue comment by Gothmog on War-Practice Thursdays.  
  
The ringing clash of an axe punctured the air, and Sauron’s face scrunched into a contrite grimace.  Next to him, Gothmog wrung his hands.  
  
In front of the two Angband commanders stood a pair of wrinkled Orcs attempting a sparring match.  Key word – attempting.  As the axe of his partner hurtled through the air, the shorter Orc shifted in a poor attempt to dodge the blow – failing miserably.  The scrape of iron meeting iron screeched down the Angband halls.   
  
Gothmog sighed in disgust.  
  
Sauron’s eye twitched.  
  
Appalled, the two Captains watched in horror as the smaller Orc spun around and thrust his axe with the clear intention of knocking out his partner’s knees.  But instead of meeting his mark, the thick plates of armour that circled either side of his knees overstepping one another and jarred together, sending the creature stumbling backwards across the floor.  
  
In his confusion the fallen Orc was struck squarely in the chest, his armour denting in the middle.  With a roar, the taller Orc tilted his head forward to finish the job … And his helmet fell off with a clatter.  
  
Gothmog winced.  Sauron spun around in fury, his cheeks pinkening.  
  
“I cannot present this, Gothmog!  Look at it – that one there cannot even get up off the floor!”  Sauron gestured to the fallen Orc still bent sideways. “ _Useless_!” He spat.  The Orc looked over at the pair with a wounded expression.  
  
“Wha–well … yes.” Gothmog frowned. “I swear Mairon it is not the training –”  
  
“Boldog!” Sauron barked. “Turn your axe around you belligerent oaf!”  
  
His bright hair sending out sparks, Sauron again rounded on the Balrog: “I have to present this at the new moon, _Gothmog_.  What do you suppose Lord Melkor is going to say?  That one could not fight his way out of a _tunic_!”  
  
There was a moment of silence, as Gothmog thought.  
  
“… Armour redesign?” Gothmog suggested.  
  
“You’re kidding me.”  Sauron looked about ready to rip out his hair, as he glared with menacing red eyes at the taller Balrog.  
  
“Well,” Gothmog started, raising a long pointed finger. “Imagine if their armour were light.”  
  


* * *

  
“I had better get a bloody promotion for this.”  Sauron muttered, retying his glowing red locks into a ponytail.   
  
The fires of the forge crackled around him.  
  
With careful precision he extracted a chest plate from the furnace and pushed it into a large vat of cold water, where it sizzled mercifully for a few seconds.  His eyes danced over the glittering silver, the cast smooth and glowing in impenetrable perfection.  
  
Sauron stood back to admire his work.  
  
_‘Imagine if their armour were light,’_ Gothmog’s voice floated through his head _._   And Sauron shifted, still not feeling quite satisfied with himself, though unable to pinpoint exactly why.  
  
The armour sparkled as he lifted it out of the water, shimmering under the light of the flames.  
  
‘Yes,’ Sauron thought, ‘this is perfect.’  
  
‘Yet,’ His eyes turned to flicker over the pile of unused materials sitting beside his workbench – after all his years separated from Aulë still not one to let good material go to waste.  
  
‘… What am I to do with all this leather?’  
  


* * *

  
The pants fit, he supposed, and he turned further around in front of the mirror, craning his neck to get a better look at the back.  
  
Oh _yes_ , the pants fit.  
  
Like an expert tailor was Sauron’s hand – with so much experience mastering the delicate art of gem casting he had found his skill well transferred.  
  
The shining leather clung to him like paint, curving over every rise and dip of his skin.  And this of course had some very pleasing results, if he did say so himself.  
  
It was not that Sauron considered himself vain.  Superior to all other beings on Arda, aside from Melkor himself?  Sure.  But vain was going a bit too far.  
  
No, he simply was just blessed with a fantastic behind – and was incapable of lying about it.  One doth not slay the Mightiest of the Valar so easily without _some_ endowments on offer.  Sauron tilted further around in the mirror.  
  
The front was not so shabby either, of course.  But all that smith-work had blessed young Mairon with a perfect, sculpted rear end that had never faded – no matter his form.  More than once had it saved him from doom, he thought with a grin.  
  
And these new pants did just the trick.  
  
Sighing with contentment, he threw on a well-tailored tunic and slung his prototype of the Army’s new, brilliant armour under his arm.   
  
The presentation was set for an hour, and he planned to be most prepared.   
  
And also – hopefully – to get laid.  
  


* * *

  
“Woah,” Gothmog blurted. “What happened to _you_?”  
  
“Hmm?” Sauron grunted, as he swung his hair over his shoulder and shot Gothmog a look.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Gothmog moved to follow Sauron into the hall, his eyes ducking down to Sauron’s new apparel.   
  
Gothmog let out a cool whistle. “Yeah.  … Don’t think for a second you’ll get away with this.”  
  
Sauron snorted with conceit, and strutted haughtily into the hall.  
  
“Watch me.”  
  


* * *

  
Catcalls rang through Angband’s large stone hall as Sauron made his way up to the front of the stage.  
  
Huffing, he ignored the attention.  Apparently in his haste he had forgotten to take into account the fact that this meeting was also catering two hundred Orcs.  
  
“Why,” Melkor’s deep voice drawled from the top of his iron throne. “Had I known we were ordering entertainment, I would have dressed up.”  
  
“Ugh,” Sauron bit. “Keep it in your pants.”  But not really.  He tilted up his nose, pretending no one could see the reddening of his cheeks.  
  
“Did you call this meeting to present new armour for the legion, or just to announce your leather fetish?”  Melkor contested, making a show of leering down at Sauron’s crotch.  
  
There was a spatter of cackling from their audience.  
  
“These?” Sauron scoffed. “My Lord, you should pay more attention – I have had these for a while.”  
  
“Really?  One would have thought I’d have noticed.”  
  
As much as Melkor tried to hide it – the slight widening of eyes, the tilt of his neck, the indiscernible shift in his seat – Sauron saw.  Sauron _knew_.  
  
“Apparently not.”  
  
As soon as he could get this bloody meeting over with, Sauron was going to mount the Vala like there was no tomorrow.  
  
“ _Anyway_ –” He waved the silver chest plate in the air as he strutted across the dais.  Well, at least all eyes were on him – he did enjoy a bit of attention.   
  
He smirked at Gothmog and began to present the new silver armour he had designed.  Though made of a more expensive metal alloy, Sauron argued the added cost would result in longer durability and increased killing efficiency for the army.  
  
“… With the added speed they will receive from this style of armour, the infiltration of Beleriand shall prevail with ease.” He implored, and turned to grin disarmingly at Melkor who was leaning back lazily in his seat.  “What say you, my lord?”  
  
Melkor bore an odd expression.  
  
“My lord?” Sauron prompted, staring expectantly at the Vala with one hand coming to rest on his left hip.  
  
“Huh?”  Melkor blinked.  “Oh, yes, yes …” He waved his hand vaguely in the air. “A cunning plan.”  
  
There was a brief stretch of silence in which their eyes locked, and Sauron momentarily forgot that it was his turn to speak.   
  
And seizing the distraction – his lips curling into a wicked smirk – Melkor licked his lips and _winked_.   
  
The chest piece Sauron had been holding nimbly in front of him slipped from his fingers and dropped to the marble floor in front of the dais with a clatter.  
  
Gothmog cursed, and Sauron blushed in earnest.  
  
“It can … also handle dropping …” Sauron prattled, suddenly flustered, and he bent to pick up the armour plate – though this time intentionally angling himself away from Melkor’s sight.  
  
A loud whistle broke through the hall.  
  
“ _Who was that_?”  Sauron bit, spinning around on a heel.  Below him in the audience, two hundred identical, scarred faces stared back at him.   
  
For a moment no one moved, but then Sauron caught a slight shift in the fifth row, where a guilty-looking Orc blinked up at him.  Upon catching Sauron’s glare his companion gave him a not-so-subtle elbow to the ribs, and the Orc winced – realising his folly a second too late.  
  
Sauron snapped.  
  
“That,” He bit, striding forward to the edge of the dais, “will be,” he drew his hand from his pocket, “the last of _your_ insolence, Burmong!”  
  
And pulling out a curved knife, Sauron flung the weapon square between the Orc’s eyes.  With a sick squelch, Burmong keeled over backwards onto the floor – dead before he hit the ground.  
  
From his slouch on the throne Melkor rolled his eyes and stretched his legs wider.  
  
Sauron spun back around, in a flurry of blazing crimson eyes.  His frustration was beginning to set alight his hair, sparks tweaking in the darkness of the hall.  And were Melkor less incensed in that moment he would have had the Maia then and there.  
  
“Mairon, Lieutenant though you are,” The Vala drawled. “You may not slaughter members of my legion just because you chose to dress like an Aulëan harlot.”   
  
He made no move to shift, settling instead on directing a soft glare at the prickly Commander, who was both clearly horny and in desperate need of a reprimand.  
  
Sauron scoffed.  “Aulëan harlot?  My Lord, you must be mistaken.  Aulë had no harlots on hand … or I assure you I never would have left.”   
  
And with a flick of his hair Sauron allowed an indulgent grin to peel across his face.  He always had thought Melkor looked more becoming with a scowl.  
  
With a squeak of leather, he bent back down to retrieve the armour, counting the seconds in his head until Melkor snapped.  One, two, thr–  
  
“ _Everyone. Out_.”   
  
Sauron smirked, his face stilled dipped out of Melkor’s sight.   
  
After a moment he straightened.  And, following the instruction, he began to saunter after the group of Balrogs who were begrudgingly exiting the hall – Gothmog turning to send him a glare.  
  
But before he could sneer back, Melkor’s voice cut in.  
  
“ _Not you, you little wench_.”  
  


* * *

  
He did not really get in trouble – not _really_ – as he was dragged through the fortress by his hair and stripped forcibly in front of Melkor’s bed.  The tightness of the leather had stuck to his skin, but that too was pulled off as he found himself flung across Melkor’s bare knees.  
  
Really, all he got was a rough palm brought down hard across his ass.   
  
But _still_ –  
  
“My Lord!” Sauron gasped, outraged. “How –”  
  
_Smack._  
  
“No!”  
  
_Smack._  
  
“I do not deserve this!”  
  
**_Smack._**  
  
Sauron gasped, a stuttered moan coursing from his lips as with each subsequent heavy slap he was jarred forwards against Melkor’s muscular thighs.  
  
He could feel Melkor’s heavy breaths above him, and Sauron dropped his head further towards the floor as he lay across Melkor’s knees, trying desperately not to think about his twitching erection as it brushed against Melkor’s thigh.  Nor of the humiliation he would feel if someone – namely Gothmog – were to choose this moment to walk in.  
  
Another slap came down hard on his skin.  
  
“ _Oh_ –”  
  
Sauron panted, gripping uselessly with his hands across the edge of the bed and Melkor’s right calf, as he struggled to give him some sort of anchor.  
  
And just as he fancied he could no longer feel the skin on his bottom, Melkor stopped his punishment.  
  
Sauron moaned – though whether in relief or disappointment he was not quite sure.  “Master –” he attempted, trying to stretch his head behind him to glimpse the look on Melkor’s face – and in his distraction, Melkor parted Sauron’s legs – “please – what– … _ohh_!”  
  
A slicked finger pushed deftly into his entrance.  
  
Sauron swore, fisting a handful of the bedcovers with one hand and clutching hard around Melkor’s calf with the other.  “ _Eru_!” He gasped; his eyes clenched shut as his hips jerked in response, Melkor’s finger inadvertently bumping his prostate.  
  
“That is not my name.” Melkor greased, and he begun to stretch Sauron open – slowly, deliciously, with the Maia still bent across his thighs like a wayward child.  
  
Sauron stretched wordlessly further over Melkor’s thighs as Melkor added a second oiled finger and began to steadily, slowly pump.  Having found their target his fingertips now brushed with precision against Sauron’s prostate with each and every thrust.   
  
Surges of thick hot pleasure twisted up inside him, pooling with a delicious burn between his thighs.  Sauron’s hips flexed, his breaths shifting into gasps.  
  
“That’s it,” Melkor breathed. “You have been begging for this all week haven’t you, you filthy little tart.”  
  
A third finger slid inside him, and a moan burst its way out Sauron’s lips.  He did not bother to deny the accusation.  He could hear Melkor’s breath hitch at the sound, and found himself jerk helplessly in response, as he dug his fingers ever harder into Melkor’s skin.  He was so hard – _so_ hard –  
  
And then, abruptly, Melkor slid out of him, grabbing the Maia by the hips.  The Vala turned, lifting him easily, and flung Sauron unceremoniously onto the bed.  Sauron scrabbled to catch himself with his hands.  
  
He felt Melkor climb onto the bed behind him, but came to his senses fast enough to twist around.  
  
“Master–” Sauron stared up at Melkor with glassy eyes, his face inadvertently coming almost into contact with Melkor’s massive, leaking arousal.  
  
The Vala stared darkly down at him, his stomach rising and falling hard.  Without breaking eye contact, Sauron indulged himself by leaning forward to swipe his tongue across the tip of Melkor’s cock.  
  
“ _Shit_.” Melkor growled, and he twitched against Sauron’s lips.  Sauron’s mouth curled upwards into a devilish grin as Melkor froze upon the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of him.  
  
Moving forward, Sauron dipped his head and licked slowly up the length of Melkor’s cock.  The Vala was very, very well endowed – and while this had been a shock to Sauron the first time they had lain together, he found himself forever since entranced by the size.  How they even fit together he did not know, but it worried him not as he moved to take in inches of Melkor’s length between his lips, wrapping his hands around the base.  
  
Melkor’s hips slammed forward – and thankfully Sauron was prepared, using his hands as an anchor as Melkor hit the back of the Maia’s throat.  
  
Melkor grunted, as he grabbed fistfuls of Sauron’s hair.  Sauron moaned around him, bobbing his head.  
  
“Fuck – do that again.” Melkor demanded, thrusting into Sauron’s mouth.  Always so bossy, Sauron thought, as another stab of hot arousal shot through him.  
  
He hummed in response, twisting his hands, and brought his head up to lick around Melkor’s tip – before sliding down again and taking more of Melkor into his throat.  
  
Melkor gripped his hair so hard Sauron could feel his scalp begin to strain.  “Hey, watch the locks,” The Maia reminded him as he pulled up briefly for air, and ducked down to take one of Melkor’s balls into his mouth.  
  
Melkor tipped his head back and let out a deep and earthy groan.  
  
Sauron felt the bed tremble slightly from the noise, and wondered with a thick sense of satisfaction if the rest of Angband knew what of the cause.  
  
“ _Mmh_ … turn around,” Melkor growled, his voice low and thick with lust.  “And splay yourself for me.”  
  
Sauron pulled off Melkor’s cock with a slick pop. “I –” he started, reluctant – but Melkor tightened his fists in Sauron’s hair.  
  
“ _Now_.” He ordered.  
  
Face burning with a mixture of humiliation and arousal, Sauron sat up and clambered around, turning on the covers to set himself upon his hands and knees.  With his face hidden from Melkor’s view, he bit his lower lip hard to try and stifle the traitorous smile he could feel bursting at his lips.  No, dammit.  
  
No matter how much he argued Melkor always got this out of him, and Sauron wondered if his Master did not already know quite well how much this act of exhibition affected him.  
  
Sauron tucked his face into the bedcovers, his hips displayed lewdly behind him.  
  
He heard Melkor’s breath hitch at the sight, and figured maybe the demand could be forgiven as the Vala climbed up behind him.  And when Melkor’s hand brushed over his aching, hard cock, Sauron swore and thrust forward at the friction. “ _Yes_ –”  
  
Kisses trailed down his back, slick and wet and oh so tantalisingly warm, and Sauron panted hard into the bed as Melkor’s hand started to ghost up and down his length.  When Melkor pressed himself up against Sauron’s back and ran a tongue across his nape, he could not help himself from breaking his position and turning to catch Melkor’s lips in a suffocating kiss.   
  
Their tongues mingled and Sauron grabbed hard at the back of Melkor’s neck, pulling the Vala closer as Melkor shifted to lean down on top of him, crushing Sauron’s body with the weight of his own.  
  
“You are too much,” Melkor murmured in between kisses, moving to trail more across Sauron’s jaw and down his neck.  Sauron scraped his fingers down Melkor’s back, as he broke into a whimper when Melkor bit the juncture of his neck _hard_. “ _Delicious_.”  
  
“ _Melkor please –_ ”  
  
“Now turn around.” The Vala growled, and without waiting for Sauron’s argument he grabbed the Maia again by the hips and flipped him, pulling Sauron to his knees and pressing himself firmly against him.  
  
“ _Valar_ –”  
  
Sauron pressed an open-mouthed gasp into the cover, and scrunched his fingers into his hair.  
  
A pair of oiled fingers slid inside him once again as Melkor wasted no time stretching Sauron to accommodate him.  The heat that had been curled in the base of his stomach was now throbbing through his veins, and Sauron’s legs trembled from the pleasure of the Vala’s relentless ministrations.  
  
“ _Please_ –” Sauron begged, ducking his head to tuck it into the pocket of his elbow as another keen poured out of him. “Please Melkor–”  
  
And then, finally and desperately slow, Melkor was pressing himself inside him – _all_ of the way in – until the Vala stilled, pelvis flush against him, with a deep groan.  
  
Melkor’s hands found his thighs, and after a few brief moments the Vala began to move.  With each thrust Sauron was pressed into the bedcovers, his mouth open and panting as all semblance of thought left him entirely.  The only thing he was aware of was the desperate ache of his cock, Melkor’s rich, animalistic grunts and the sweet, slick burn of pleasure that coursed through him.  
  
As Melkor picked up the pace, Sauron could not swallow down a shout.  He could hear Melkor’s breaths quickening, and Sauron groaned as the Vala reached one hand forward to grab at his leaking length.  
  
“Yes, _please_ – ”  
  
“ _Shit_ ,” Melkor gasped, and his grip tightened unexpectedly on Sauron’s cock and oh, Eru –  
  
Sauron’s bit hard into the bedcovers, his hips twitching frantically under Melkor’s slapping thrusts.  
  
“ _Come for me_.”  
  
And he did not need to be told twice.  A loud, keening moan broke through the air and Sauron came with a burning rush of pleasure.  His hips canted as he spurted madly under Melkor’s pumping fist, his body twitching in wanton abandon.  And, mere moments after, as he still rode the high he could feel Melkor come undone inside him, his groan great enough to shake the walls.  
  
With the last, milking thrust behind him, Sauron collapsed face-first onto the bed.  
  
“Ungh.” He concluded – though what he really meant was _‘I should start a fashion line.’  
  
_ And dropping down on top of him, Melkor crushed the remaining air out of his lungs.  
  


* * *

  
Three days later, the pair had hardly moved.  
  
“By the dark halls of Mandos, Mairon.” Melkor complained, after their 36th hour of continuous sex – allowing for wine breaks, of course.  “How is Angband expected to flourish into the new age if I am unable to complete any work!”  
  
Sauron stretched out luxuriously.  
  
“Frankly, Master, that is hardly my fault.”  He inspected his nails, one of which was still bent at a very odd angle.  
  
“Like hell.” Melkor groused.  
  
Sauron shrugged. “You are the one with the impulse control problem.”  
  
“Oh, go on – keep pushing.”  
  
But Melkor’s voice was deceptively light, and Sauron rolled over with a grin, and proceeded to ignore the warning.  Naked, he rose proudly from the bed, and sauntered across the room.  
  
Lightly he bent over on full display in front of his Master as he casually leaned down to swipe his pants off the floor below.  Though, with a last fleeting surge of cheek, he turned his head back to peer at Melkor’s lustful face and shot the Vala a filthy grin.  
  
“What do you think these would look like spread over your throne?” He queried, with an innocent quirk of his eyebrows.  
  
Melkor’s face grew dark. “That’s it.”  
  
Sauron’s smirk faltered.  
  
Melkor had begun to raise himself off the bed, his erection on proud display.  And moments before, Sauron would have been excited – if it were not for the now murderous look on Melkor’s face.  
  
“Master – no, wait –” He floundered, straightening quickly and turning around, still undressed.  
  
Melkor advanced slowly.  “ _Enough_ , Sauron – thy venomous little tart,” he bit.  
  
Sauron felt his breath hitch, and the colour drain from his face.  His first instinct was to back away, but this was never a good idea with Melkor.  
  
And slowly, sinuously, Melkor raised his right hand – bringing it forward towards Sauron –  
  
And snatched the dreadful leather pants from his hand.  
  
“These,” Melkor growled, with a deep hinting threat lacing his voice, as though daring Sauron to argue – “Are banished from here forth to the fiery pits of Thangorodrim.  And if you _dare_ to make another pair of these evil and disgraceful … _devices_ , I will see to it you are thrown in to _accompany_ them!"  
  
Sauron’s jaw dropped.  
  
And in one furious and frustrated beat Melkor spun around and stoked out of the chamber – _sans_ clothes – leaving the equally naked and bewildered Lieutenant in his wake.  
  
“My,” Sauron gasped, his right hand swiping uselessly at the air in the direction of the door, “… my pants!”


End file.
